The backwords of the calender reflected the life of countless dead pain filled souls wanting comfort, none belived in this year, in spaces did go, metorites did kill and flow, to end up reciding in a isle of euruptoin, to figure out in heiroghyflics of the ancient and the damned, while the devil dances on graves of physical blackness that is the world.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem